


she's intense; it's not a bad thing

by unicyclehippo



Series: Critical Shorts [4]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: beau has familial trauma lol, who doesn't amiright
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21714475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicyclehippo/pseuds/unicyclehippo
Summary: prompt request: beau has probably been told she's too intense by a lot of people like her parents and she likes that these people can be just as intense as she isor, to be told constantly to sit quiet, sit still, don't interrupt, don't be so loud, don't embarrass us, don't ruin your dress, don't ask so many damn questions, beauregard, it is heartbreaking. to make yourself less - less annoying, less aggravating, just less - hurts. for your existence to be the source of irritation to people important to you. so fuck it. right?
Series: Critical Shorts [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1824253
Comments: 3
Kudos: 158





	she's intense; it's not a bad thing

Beau enjoys working out, more than maybe anything in the world. She loves the intensity of fighting, the way it feels like her brain isn’t stuck on the top of her neck at all times but is _in_ her body, is a part of her, not disconnected from it all. She’s heard a lot of fighters describe it as letting their mind rest—not thinking, just acting and reacting—but Beau can’t relate to that. For her, it’s like her body is finally working at the same speed as her mind. Like her brain doesn't have to compensate, lugging a piece of meat along with it. And when she’s really doing well, it feels for once that the scattered pattern of her thoughts actually means something—the seemingly incoherent leaps from topic to topic, the effort it takes to bear down on it to get it to _focus_ , dammit—are uniquely disposed to the rapid fire patterns of lean, step, punch, duck, step, kick, roll, and so on.

That’s in a fight. But even when she’s doing her simple workout, her strengthening exercises, her stretches, she feels at peace. Like she’s making her body into something it is meant to be—something she wants it to be.

Strong. Capable. Resilient.

A body that will do the things _she_ wants it to do

_Sit still, Beauregard. Stop fidgeting, Beauregard. Keep your hands in your lap, Beauregard._

Beau can’t help but grin. There’s no one awake yet to see the feral set to it, more a baring of teeth than good cheer.

With this body, she doesn’t sit still. Never has to sit still again. She flits from book to book, from enemy to enemy, fast. _Saves_ people like that. Leaps rooftops, swims far beneath the surface of the ocean. Touches everything she wants to touch - from the shoulder of a knobble-kneed Zemnian wizard to an electrically charged door key, to Kryn seals of approval to fey dogs to lockpicks to fire pits, shoving her hands into burning coals. 

_You have such lovely hair, Beauregard. Such beautiful bone structure. I don’t understand why you resist me so much—you will look so lovely in a dress._

She shaves the sides of her head with careful, steady hands. Sets her uniform to rights with less careful hands. There’s not much she can do about the bone structure, that scaffolding, but she builds upon it muscle and sinew and scar, and does her best not to think about the slope of cheekbones and a high, regal forehead and the shape and weight of another's expectations.

‘Good morning, Beau. Are you nearly done? I’ve got, ah, your tea all ready.’ Caduceus stands at the edge of the hut, bleary eyed and smiling, a small cup held in his hands which he lifts as if to say, _Look, see?_ Steam rises in a curling column from it before being whisked away on the morning breeze.

Beau releases her stretch. Stands, makes her way over next to him. ‘More dead people tea?’

‘Hmm? No, no, I'm running low. Saving it for special occasions. I got this at the market. Lovely blend. Citrus. Bright. Bought this one specially for you,' he tells her. 'I know how you like your morning exercises. They were very excited about getting a silver piece for it,’ he tells her.

Beau sips at her cup. She had never been much of a tea drinker but, fuck it, he bought it _for her._ Perfect temperature, of course. She cocks her head to the side. ‘Did you get them a silver, or a platinum?’

He stares down at her. Blinks. ‘What’s the difference?’

‘About ten gold.’

‘No, no, I didn’t give them gold.’

Beau rubs at her forehead, shrugs. ‘You know what, man? Why not give them a platinum? Make their day. Make their whole fuckin’ year.’ She claps him on the shoulder, enjoys the way his smile grows ever wider, curling nearly up to his floppy ears.

**Author's Note:**

> hi im unicyclehippo on tumblr as well, feel free to swing on by & say hi or send me a prompt x


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